The Way the World Ends
by MomentousNote
Summary: I swing my blade. It slices through his jaw, crunches against bone. I jerk the axe out of his face and he stumbles back. I swing a second time, into the side of his skull. A third time, right through his forehead. No matter how many times I hit him, long after he's reduced to a body twitching on the side of the road, his satisfied leer never fades. I turn away and dry heave.
1. We All Fall Down

**We All Fall Down**

 _This is the way the world ends._

 _Not with a bang but a whimper._

I read it in a poem once. I never could get those lines out of my head, and now they swirl round and round my mind. Round and round and round. Slamming against the screeching of the hospital alarm. Warring for my attention against the echo of screams, the panting breaths of fear, the remnants of what was.

The steady rhythm of the words, their predictable monotony, would be easy to slip into. So easy to lose myself in, far from reality.

 _Not with a bang but a whimper..._

Black smoke seeps out from beneath one of the inpatient doors, the remains of a minor fire set by a patient in panic. The woman- Carly Anderson, age 50, happily married and mother to twin twelve-year-old boys, cursed by stage four lung cancer- played with matches and lighters all the time to keep herself busy, distracted. She got them snuck in so often that we finally gave up on confiscating them. There was no harm in it, they figured, as long as she didn't light a cigarette. When her roommate- Talia Montgomery, age 31, engaged to be married but struggling with breast cancer- died in her sleep, Carly didn't know anything was wrong. And nothing was wrong, technically. Just another death, expected but unprepared for. With everything else going on, her sudden passing went silent and unnoticed.

Until an hour later- a record for the hospital. Until Talia- or what was left of her- woke up. Her face, her body, but with bloody eyes and a snarl, growling and staggering until she was at Carly's bedside. And on her.

Carly screamed for help, shrill and piercing. Everyone in the wing heard. The doctor making his rounds- Tate Ramsey, age 49, receding hairline most likely due to the stress of his recent divorce- was the first responder of a sorts. Although bold in delivering the diagnosis, he was a coward in all other aspects of life. Carly was a goner the moment the biter ripped a chunk out of her arm, but instead of helping her or sparing her or _taking care of the problem_ , Doctor Tate slammed the door on her pleas and threw away the key.

Then there were only screams. Hungry grunts. Whimpers. A moan. Blood all over the room, although you wouldn't know it with the room sealed and filled with the lingering smoke from the fire. _Containing the threat._ That's how the good doctor justified his actions.

And Carly, Carly…

I don't think she knew what she was doing when she lit the match.

Then again, maybe she did. Burning any items contaminated by exposure to the biters was one of the first precautionary measures people could think of. It was the way disease used to be dealt with in the ages before science, before there were better options available to us. And now, it seemed, all that progress failed us. We were reverting back to our old ways, relying on what we knew with a vengeance thanks to this foreign _sickness_. By now, we knew burning things didn't work, because it was all about the bite itself, but fear made people do insane things.

Like set yourself on fire.

But the screams aren't from the lick of the flame. Oh, no. Burning is a mercy that brings an escape. No, the screams are from the pain of being ripped apart by dull teeth. _Human_ teeth on a monster.

Monsters made of the dead, that kept on gnawing away at organs and muscle and bone even when their flesh was melting off. Parasitic corpses that wormed their way into every corner of the earth and infected the hospitals, starting with the morgues lacking a proper security watch. That was back when we didn't know a guard was necessary, when things were normal. It's where the problem started with all the health centers. One person died while no one was paying attention, came back real quick as a biter, and went on to spread its venom, driven by an insatiable hunger. Then there was something out of hand, this mass panic as a herd of the dead lurched in, and just as rapidly as it began, it was over and the hospital was overrun.

They'd covered the epidemic on the news, in the beginning. Little things, here and there. A dad devouring his child's eye and taking a bite of his cheek before the wife could knock him out with a frying pan. They discovered she'd banged a gash into the back of his skull when the police arrived. A homeless man attacking a woman, ripping out her jugular with his teeth. More stories popped up day by day. Said they weren't connected, but you can't help but be suspicious when there are mysterious reports on cannibalistic killings across six countries and a rash of missing persons reports in all fifty states.

And then there was the video that went viral on YouTube in a matter of hours. The one of the cop emptying a clip of bullets into some supposedly dead woman in San Diego, California. You'd think she must've been on PCP to withstand one shot to the chest, but after eight going in, and her simply grunting, you only think "impossible". The lady just kept walking, blood leaking from her wounds, gore splattering her shirt, trying to get to the police officer, until a shot lodged itself into her forehead. Only then did she drop. After, everyone started noticing the odd whispers. Everyone recalled the freak car accident in downtown, the similar situation. Got a little skittish, especially when, one night, a breaking news segment interrupted the regularly scheduled programs to report that John Hopkins Hospital had fallen, yet another in a string of medical disasters.

Chicago General was one of the last strongholds in Illinois. After the outbreak worsened, the hospitals were meant to stay fortified, be beacons of hope, lighthouses in a dark ocean, yada yada yada. To say it was hard to do after world renowned clinics had crumbled was the understatement of the year, but treatment would still be needed for the sick, and a safe place to go for it once the government "got things under control", whatever that meant. So we stayed- some of us, anyway. The brave ones. The ones who couldn't afford to go without employment. Short-staffed and overworked, the new norm.

We started carrying weapons, too. Crowbars, hammers, kitchen knives- whatever we could find that would protect us. Guns couldn't be bought anymore. Those were concentrated with the police, under the broad umbrella of "protection". And we couldn't complain, not when we were under martial law and a state of emergency had been declared.

The police's new job description unofficially included "dispatching the infected." And that could mean anything, really, depending on the definition of "infected".

The alarm blaring renews, a harsh ringing in my ears. I jolt, finding my legs again. I flex my fingers, curl them around the baseball bat I brought from my apartment. The steel, unyielding weight and the noise reminds me of who I am.

A fighter, not a weakling. Not someone who will sit by and welcome the end, paralyzed by fear. Not a lamb to the slaughter. Not prey.

I am a survivor.

The police will be here soon. In full riot gear, armed with semi-automatics.

They march into large places like a hospital once the dead outnumber the living, and no one comes out again. Those were the murmurs. Those kinds of reports vanished from the nightly news after the first fourteen days. It turned out it wouldn't matter anyway, because after day twenty, the oddest thing happened- the broadcasts stopped. Day after day of reassuring the public that everything was normal, maybe insisting more than usual that we get our flu shots, and suddenly nothing.

Utter radio silence that sent everyone in Illinois into a flurry of hysteria.

Fighting erupted in the heart of the city. Riots ensued. Roads were blockaded by protesters. The shelves of supermarkets were empty within days, usually because of raids. I hadn't dared to push through the crowds. One of my neighbors told me their friend was trampled in the stampede.

I stand from behind the reception desk counter, peer around the corner too see if the police are near this wing. Only hospital beds barricading doors to rooms filled with the dead, and scattered glass and flickering bulbs. I force my stiff legs to move, to get to the exit.

There's a bang. A scream. A pop.

I stop.

Silence, for a moment. And then- "This room is clear."

 _So the rumors are true._

No one leaves alive.

Footsteps sound in the hallway, the marching of heavy boots. My first instinct is to run in the opposite direction, but I know I won't make it into cover in time, and there would be no good place to hide anyway. Which only leaves one of the patient rooms and whatever lies within them.

My gaze slowly latches onto Room 214. The smoke trickles out in faint tendrils now, a light grey. I know it has to be my best bet, that I'll be safe. If I can stomach what happened, the stench. And I'll have to. I'll have to if I want to make it out alive. If I want to get back to Ian and Madeline.

 _Ian. Maddy_. I'd do anything to get back to them.

Mom pulled Ian out of school at my insistence. She never would have done so had it not been for my nagging, but we weren't the only people to do so, and it helped my case. Parents had been taking their kids from school for weeks, ever since the first strange reports hit the air. I'd forced Mom to keep him home after one of the elementary schools in the county over got overrun. The chatter and shouts from the kids at recess drew the attention of the biters- a mob. The teachers tried to protect the kids, gathered them in large groups in classrooms for a lockdown.

It just made them easier pickings for the dead.

That much was evident from the footage.

I shake my head, forcing myself to remember Ian and little Maddy are safe. At home with Mom and their dad. But still, I'm antsy. I know my mom, and I have a pretty good idea of the kind of man Darian Wheeler is. I don't trust them enough to be at ease. I won't be able to calm down until I'm there myself to see that they are okay.

The policemen are just rounding the corner when I dark into the rotten room. The fumes hit me first, and I gag, swallowing back bile. I wipe my eyes, step around the charred bodies mangled, fused together. My nurse shoes slip over the blood-slicked tile, and I fall into the mess of black gunk and body matter. I spit, congealed blood coating my lips.

" _Son of a bitch_ ," I hiss, furiously brushing my mouth, gasping.

Stomps fill the air, pounding past my hiding place. And finally a hesitation. I tense.

The door handle starts to turn, and I scramble behind the empty hospital bed, sheets hanging off the edge hiding me from view.

A guard in full protective gear stumbles in, double-takes just like I did. The officer takes off his helmet, revealing the young man behind the mask. He heaves a couple of times, and doesn't make it one step before he throws up. His lunch mixes with the remains on the ground, creating a smell so acrid that tears prick my eyes again. I cringe as he pants, pray he doesn't move his head an inch more to the right.

But he does.

I lift my baseball bat.

He stares.

And then he starts shaking his head, just swinging it back and forth, trembling all over like a man on his way to his own execution. "They gave us orders." His words are a hoarse whisper I have to strain to hear.

I watch him warily, my grip slackening on the bat.

"The orders…" he sighs. It's one of those 'world on your shoulders' sighs, but how is that possible when the world is falling apart? "We were given orders to kill the dead. The- thethethe _biters_. _Only_ them. But… but then the captain said "everyone goes. They've all been infected."" He looks at me, but his brown eyes are glassy and dull with distant terror. I wonder if he even knows what he's saying. Why he's telling me.

"And the others, once we got in here, they just started shooting. Shooting over the cries! Innocent people! I didn't see any scratches or bites! They- there was only begging. And the _kids._ " A ragged sob escapes the man, and his eyes absently search the blood on the floor, like the warm, sticky pool of red holds the answers. My stomach rolls with dread. "The kids. Some… some of them were already gone, but- I mean, most of them… They lined them up. Lined them all up, and - and they were..."

He doesn't have to finish. Put down like dogs.

I swallow.

"I- I didn't want to," the officer continues, ragged voice tapering. "So I didn't. I didn't, I didn't. I just- only pretended to- to-" The man stops, retches. "Kids… How is _this_ going to save anyone?!"

He looks down at his hands, the bloodstains there. They shake, raked by tremor after tremor. The man laughs, and the noise, its broken, lost ring, sends a shiver down my spine. "Look at this," he says, bordering on hysterical. "I can't- _Ican'tstopit._ "

He focuses on me then, eyes pleading with me to understand. I nod slightly, a small mercy for him, but I don't let my pity show. No one wants to be pitied.

He straightens, jaw set with resolve. "Once I call this section clear, go out the way we came. Everything from here to the first floor is… safe."

Safe. I could scoff. Dead littering the ground is safety now?

I stand and clear my throat. "Do you have a cellphone? I need- I need to call my brother. The line here is cut off, um. I need to make sure he and our little sister are okay."

His nodding is frantic, eager to please, as though this will atone him for what he's done. He fumbles for the phone, nearly dropping it into the drying puddle at his feet. I barely restrain from snatching it from his trembling fingers.

My fingers shake, too, from fear and adrenaline, but somehow I manage to punch in the numbers for the phone I bought Ian, and it dials. Rings and rings and rings.

A click, and for a moment, I can believe that there is someone up there looking out for me, because the call goes through.

Breathing.

A sniffle.

"Ian? Ian, are you there? It's me. It's Harper."

A shuddering sob.

"Ian." I force myself to say his name slowly. Calmly. Keep the wavering doubt out. "Are you okay? Is Maddy okay? Are you with Mom and Dar- your dad? Are you safe?"

Another sniffle.

"It's okay, Ian. It's okay. I'm coming soon, okay? It'll be alright, I promise. I promise…"

"Daddy… Daddy tol- to hide- closet," he whispers through the crackling phone speaker. "- not to come out- he or Mom- me."

I can hear screams coming from down the hall, and when I glance toward the door, I see the officer bracing his hands on his knees, wiping at his mouth. He's puked again. I pull the phone closer to my ear, as though that will protect me from my mounting panic.

"Ian? I can't- You're breaking up. I'll be right there, Ian? Stay where you are, okay? Is Maddy with you? Don't- don't come out until I'm there. Stay hidden!"

A cry. Static. "Maddy was crying- Mom, she did- I'm sc- I- Jax is dead, it-"

"I'm coming! Stay there!" I repeat, nearly shouting into the phone. "I'll be there before you know it! Okay? Ian?"

It takes me a moment to realize that the line is dead.

" _Damn_." I chuck the phone at the wall. It clatters to the floor, the screen a cracked spider-web. The officer and I stare at it as it slides through the blood and vomit. He's too ill and ashamed to care that I've just mutilated his phone. Or maybe he just knows we'll never have a chance to use technology like that again.

I take a deep breath.

"My brother and sister…" I shake my head, trying to get rid of the fog. "I need to go. Yeah. I need to go. Thank you."

He jerks his head in finality, but he pauses with his hand outstretched to open the door. I quirk an eyebrow at him in question, waiting. "If I were you, I'd get the hell out of Chicago as quick as I can," he admits. "I heard the army's loading up planes with napalm."

My eyes widen, so slowly it could've been comical if circumstances had been different. _Bombs. Bombs to deal with overwhelming odds._

"Thank you for telling me."

I don't think I'll ever forget his grim smile, or the way he had the voice of an unwavering dead man who'd accepted his fate as he stepped into the corridor and yelled "Clear!" And it's not until he's gone that I realize I never learned his name.

Eventually I pry the door open again, snaking out into the carnage. It's like there's a shift in the air, as though a tornado tore through the hospital and this is the aftermath. Even though the smell is the same, and the lights continue to flicker, there is an undeniable difference. Something tainted in the unnaturally still silence.

The bodies litter the floor, some tangled together, others holding hands in a last desperate act. Nobody wants to die alone. All of them have wide and vacant eyes. Countless innocents, running from death with their last breaths even as it dragged them down to whatever comes next. Adults who were in for a normal checkup, some who were visiting elderly relatives. Cancer patients in remission, who'd tasted a hint of sweet victory only to have it viciously stolen from right beneath their noses. Children just in for a burst appendix or a nasty flu, but otherwise had an entire future in front of them.

My lips curl, the only hint of my disgust, my fear.

I don't bother to sneak past. I sprint, panting, trying not to pay attention to what I see around me.

When I burst through the emergency exit, I expect something different from the fallen hospital. Something like a breath of fresh air to rid me of death's stench, to cleanse me as I entered a new world that would make the inside of Chicago General a distant nightmare.

What I get is a war zone. Tanks idle in the parking lot, like they are casual invaders that really mean no harm. Police trucks swamp the entrance, a blockage. Officers hide behind the vehicles, prepared to shoot on sight.

I am the only one who will escape.

The ride home, to Ian and Maddy, is a blur. I remember the congestion on the streets, the shouting and chaos and fire, but not how long it took. I remember crawling past a car painted 'JUST MARRIED!' with a shattered passenger window and a corpse bride with blood staining her wedding gown. I remember how bright the sun was, beating down on me as I ran inside with my weapon at the ready. I remember thinking that it was cruel, how happy and hopeful the day seemed to be when nothing was okay.

The door to our home is ajar, and I absently think it's as much a blessing as it is a curse, because I'd forgotten to bring the key with me in my rush to get here. Everything looks normal at first glance, but then I notice the little things. The papers tossed carelessly about, swiped to the carpet. The lamp displaced a few inches to the right, so you can see the ring of dust surrounding where it should've been. The overhead light that should be illuminating the room because the switch is on but the power is out.

"Ian?" I hiss, creeping through the front room to the living room. Silence. That eerie _nothing_. "Mom? Darien?"

The windows are shuttered, and only dim rays of light filter in. I squint, fairly certain something is there in the darkness, a black, small mass. "Ian?" I ask again, foolishly. Ian always listens to me, so he had to still be hiding in his bedroom closet.

And then I hear the sound, when I'd been so deaf before. Growling. Ripping. Shredding. Snarling. That blob moving, growing bigger. Taller.

A biter.

Steeling myself, I edge closer and swing. A spray of blood coats me as part of the biter's head flies off. The thing falls over with a last strangled moan. I gag, move in. One way or another, I have to know. I have to know who this _monster_ is and what it was eating.

This time I can't keep it in. When my stomach turns over, I vomit. That's what Ian was talking about on the phone, before the call cut off. _Jax- dead._ Our dog is dead, and I am looking at the remains, what little hadn't been torn apart. Any meat goes for the biters, I guess. I wipe my mouth against my shirt sleeve, squeezing my eyes shut for a second. _Now isn't the time for crying._

"Ian? Mom?" _Please, please, please don't be more._

"Honey?"

That- That… My mouth goes dry. "Mom?" I raise my voice slightly. "Is that you?"

"Sweetie, are you home? What are you doing visiting so early?" Shuffling feet. _Her_ shuffling feet, her usual gait. Never confident, my mom. That was the way she went, dragging her feet this way and that way. Even in times like this, she still took her time.

Shuffling.

My eyebrows draw closer and closer together as I process her words. "Mom, what are you talking about? Where are you?"

"In the kitchen, sweetie. I'm waiting for Darien to come home."

My grip on the bat loosens, and I snap back to myself. "Darien?" What did it matter at a time like this? I shake my head. Confusion can't cloud my judgement, dull my awareness. "Mom, are there any more of them in the house?"

I dart into the kitchen as a siren zooms past the house. Mom's back is turned to me as she stands at the sink with her arms folded in front of her. Nothing seems amiss here. And after the day I've had, it's like a moment taken from another time and placed in the present. It's _wrong_ , even if it seems like it should be right.

"Darien was here earlier," Mom carries on. The way she's talking… I shudder. Her words lilt with a dreamy, distant quality, the way she used to get before she finally got a divorce and ended the first loveless marriage. "He was here, but then he had to go. He said he'd be right back. Right back. He just had to take care of some things. That's what he said. He said he'd take care of everything."

I take a few more steps toward her, my fear a growing itch, making me nauseous. "What happened? What happened, Mom? Where's Ian? Do you have Maddy?- I called him. Ian, I mean. I saw, I saw Jax. In the living room. With the biter." I swallow around the lump in my throat. "We need to get out of here."

Mom's body goes rigid like a lightning bolt has gone through her and then relaxes. I see the muscles in her arms clench and unclench, clench and unclench. "A biter? What in God's name are you going on about? And Jax- no, _no_ , NO!" I jump, startled by her outburst. Mom spins around, livid. And finally I notice, finally I can see what she's holding in her arms. A bundle. I lurch forward, hands stretching out a little.

"Everything is FINE, sweetie!" Mom growls. "Jax is only worn out! Th- that intruder, it didn't- By God! I mean, Darien is going to take care of it!"

I can piece together what happened. Darien won't be back, won't keep his vow. That's the kind of man he is. Abandoning ship as soon as things get hairy, regardless of who he's leaving behind, like a kid son and a baby daughter. He had to save his own skin first, and if that meant leaving behind dependent children with an equally dependent, unstable mother, then so be it.

"Okay, Mom," I agree, the gentleness I mean to convey hedged by panic. "Is that Maddy you're holding? Mom?"

She looks down, and the aggravation lining her face recedes, and that detached calm settles back into her. "Oh, yes. Yes, my little Madeline. She was being so loud, you know. So loud. You know what she's like when she's upset. You know. But now she's quiet again, sleeping like a doll, sleeping…"

"Why don't I take her for a while? Let you rest. How does that sound?"

I lean my baseball bat against the kitchen table. Neither of us notice when a piece of biter brains sloughs off onto the clean wood surface. I stretch my arms further out. My fingers brush Maddy's baby blanket, and they sink into the soft fabric, but then I'm catching air, a cold draft. Mom whisks her out of my reach, softly humming a lullaby.

"Mom? Mom, give me Maddy, come on. Mom!"

"She's _sleeping_ ," Mom snaps loudly. "Now stop making a ruckus!"

I falter, a weird gasp escaping me, low and guttural. Lost. Maddy was notorious for her light sleeping. The smallest noises made her wake, howl like her worst nightmares had come true. But this, now… This isn't her.

The pounding of my heart is a dull roar in my ears, drowning out everything else. _Th-thump, th-thump, th-thump._ Mom's mouth is moving, so noise must be coming out, but I don't hear anything. Don't understand her incoherent words.

How? How.

"How what?" Her question breaks through the haze, sharp and clear. I didn't realize I'd spoken aloud. "Sweetie?"

 _Sweetie_. I feel a shiver of revulsion, and the surreal itch that this is all one giant nightmare I'm going to wake up from eventually.

"Maddy," I say flatly, staring blankly. "How did she die?"

Mom blinks, like she's waking up. She looks down at my sister, the red curls spilling from the top of the bundle, and holds Maddy closer to her chest. "I- I… what…" her words wobble as they tumble from her mouth. "She's sleeping, I told you. She needed some help, especially when the intruder came in, but I helped her to sleep. I couldn't have her _whining_ , drawing attention to us. I had to muffle her somehow… It wasn't for very long … and eventually… eventually… No more crying."

A lazy, innocent, smile comes onto her face, like she's proud of her quick thinking, and there's this pain in the hollow of my chest. Clawing at me. I push the beast of grief and anger rising in me down. I can't be distracted. There are things to do, like keep Ian and myself alive.

"Where's my brother?" I don't recognize my voice, the harsh, rasping tone. Not me at all. I've always been soft, quiet. Bottle everything up and be pleasant before anything else so you don't draw attention or else. That was the way I was raised to be. "Where the hell is he?"

 _Is he dead, too?_

But Mom's gone back to humming, rocking Maddy in her arms like a caring mother, living in her make-believe world. "Ian and I are leaving." I start to rummage around the kitchen, grabbing food, grabbing anything I can find that'll be useful, that I can stuff into another bag to take with us. "We're leaving and we won't come back."

"Okay, sweetie. I'm going to wait for Darien to get back home."

My jaw works oddly. _Fine,_ I think, _let her lie to herself. It wouldn't be the first time._ Let her get herself killed. She probably won't know when it happens that it _is_ happening. Maybe it's for the best this way. Another thought arises that I can't dismiss. _Maybe…_

I grab one of the spare backpacks from the pantry, start stacking the cans and fruit. _It's for the best._ The canned beets go in the bag. _It's for the best._ Canned corn disappears. _It's for the best._ Green bananas that Mom will let go to rot. _It's for the best._ Crunchy apples Darien bought mere days ago but never got around to chomping down. _It's for the best._ Boxes of granola bars Mom had stock-piled, as though she forgot she had a pack and kept buying more. _It's for the best._ All of Ian's snacks, thrown in. _It's for the best._ I smash the last box into the now bulging pack, sling it over my shoulder, and grab my baseball bat.

My gaze sweeps across the sunny kitchen one last time, searching for anything I might've missed that we might need. I slowly back my way to the kitchen door, unwillingly looking back at what I'd so adamantly ignored before. Mom humming, Maddy… not Maddy. What would happen to her? Would she turn into one of those things? Was that even possible for a baby? For someone not bitten? That hole in my chest caves in further, and there's this shattered mess where my heart should be. And what of Mom? Could I really leave her behind? Could I take her? After what she did? _Or maybe…_

 _No._ No. She's a danger, a threat, and there are already too many threats on the outside to have to worry about instability within our own ranks. Ian's safety is my sole concern now. Protecting Ian. Yes. I will not lose another person that I care about. _Protect Ian_. I don't care what I have to sacrifice to do it.

"Goodbye, Mom," I say softly. "I-" I shake my head. "Goodbye."

I don't expect an answer, and I'm not surprised with one.

I fly up the stairs, uncaring of the potentially dangerous racket I'm making. "Ian!" I scream. "IAN!" I barge into his bedroom at the same time he's pulling the door open. I haul him up, wrapping my arms tightly around him. He clings to me in return, his fear and panic keeping him from making any noise. Relief clangs through me, and I release a shaky breath. "Ian. You're okay. You're okay." I pull back a little, using one hand to wipe away the tears wetting his cheeks.

Ian finally finds his voice, and part of me, the terrible part, wishes he didn't. Because I know the next words out of his mouth will form a question. And when he asks, I'll have to answer. Maybe not today, or the next, but soon. I'll have to be the one to rip him away from what he knows, because Mom certainly can't do it.

"What's going on?"

The beginnings of a headache makes my temples throb. I slowly kneel down so that Ian is standing again and I'm at his level. "We can't stay here anymore. So you and me, we're gonna go on a trip. You better pack your bag. As much clothes as you can fit."

Some of the usual spark returns to his steely grey eyes. "Really?" A troubled frown turns down his lips. "But why?"

"It's not safe here," I sigh. "We've got to get out of the city. Maybe do a little off-roading. It'll be an adventure." I wiggle my eyebrows absurdly, pleased when it draws a reluctant laugh from my brother.

But his brow furrows more. "What about Maddy and Mom and Dad? Aren't they coming with us?"

I glance away from him, biting my lip. How do you tell a frightened kid that your dad ran off like a dog with its tail between its legs? That your mom isn't home when you knock? That your baby sister won't wake up? I couldn't. Not yet.

"Nah, not this time, kiddo." I attempt to smile, but based on the look on Ian's face, it probably looks more like a grimace, and I give up. "This trip is special. Just for you-" I poke him on the nose "- and me."

He nods slowly, but he knows I am keeping something from him. He's going to press me. "Go pack your backpack, alright?" I order before he can push. "Be quick. The sooner we leave the better."

"Are we ever going to come back?" His voice is small, vulnerable.

There's no beating around the bush. "I wish I could say yes, but I don't think so."

"But…" His eyes rove his bedroom, the same one he's known since birth. "If it's forever, why isn't everyone else going with us?"

I run my fingers through my hair in agitation. "They don't want to come, and Mom wants Maddy to stay with her. I just need you to trust me, okay? Can you do that?"

"Of course," he answers instantly, like it's a reflex.

"I promise I'll tell you, but not right now."

Ian finishes packing in silence, and then we trudge down the stairs, him lagging behind to soak up everything he can. The smell from the living room hits me first like a punch to the stomach, and there's no stopping it from reaching Ian. He gags, tripping down the last few steps onto the ground floor. His hold on the banister turns his knuckles a deathly white.

His expression twists with disgust. "What is _that_?"

I tug on his arm to get him moving. He cranes his neck to get a glimpse into the living room. "Is that- Is that Jax?"

"No," I answer tersely, a blatant lie.

"Yes, it is," he insists, a morbid determination edging his tone. "What's that in there with him? Is that the… _biter_?" He whispers it, like daring to utter 'biter' will bring more to our doorstep.

I glance into the yawning darkness, eyes lingering on the lifeless blob and the body next to it. "It's nothing. You don't want to see anything that's in there, Ian."

"But-"

"Ian," I say in a tone that leaves no room for argument. "There's nothing you want to see in there."

He swallows, but doesn't move. I nudge him along, but he doesn't follow for long. When we pass the kitchen, we both hear the singing. I think she might be sobbing, too. And, beneath that, I think I hear grunts of hunger. _Maybe..._

"Is that Mom? What is she doing in there? Harper?"

"Nothing we can help her with."

"It's _Mom_ ," he begs.

" _No_ , Ian. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." My voice is ragged, so much so that Ian lets the subject to be dropped, and he leads me outside of the prison of a house. I gobble down the fresh air, try to ignore the clatter I hear from inside. My gaze slides to Ian, but he doesn't take notice. He's staring down the street with a vacant glint in his eyes, one that should never be seen on a child's face.

I run my hand across my forehead, unthinkingly leaving a smear of red in its wake. _What kind of world is he going to grow up in?_

"Where will we go?"

 _I don't know. I don't know._ But then there's a glimmer, a thread to pull on. "Georgia. I'm thinking it's about time we visit our cousins."

Ian makes a face, as though Georgia is the worst place to go. I feel the start of a grin forming, but it quickly vanishes at the sound of a sharp _bang_. A gunshot. Not close. Still, I instinctively pull Ian close to me while pulling out the car key.

"I need you to stay in the car," I command, pressing the key into his palm. "There's one last thing I have to take care of." Because the shot reminded me of Darien's gun safe. With any luck, he'd left most of his weapons behind. "You stay hidden in the back seat until I come back, okay? Don't come out no matter what."

I don't make him wait long. At least, I don't think I do. At some point time turned to liquid, slipping through my fingers. _It's for the best. Everyone's safe this way,_ I remind myself fiercely, checking my clothes and skin for dark stain splatters I wouldn't be able to explain away.

 _This is the way the world ends._

 _Not with a bang but a whimper._


	2. The Dead Linger

**The Dead Linger**

The car shudders. A death rattle makes its way from the front of the dirtied teal vehicle to the back, and then another one rips through it, quicker, more desperate. I rip my hands off of the wheel as if I've been burned, and they hover doubtfully above the black leather. I stare at the dashboard in horror. I knew this was coming- even I know there's something wrong with a car when a red light keeps flashing beside the speedometer- but I hoped it would happen _after_ we got to the farm. After we are safe.

I mean, assuming the farm _is_ safe and standing, and the Greenes are still alive. I have an inkling that they've survived this long, like it's in our family's blood to be as resilient as weeds, but that, like everything else on this trip in this new world, is just a tenuous hope. Hoping that leaving Illinois and heading for Georgia was a good idea. Hoping that the day in, day out travel was worth it. Hoping that the terrible things we've gone through and had to do are somehow going to be okay and acceptable just because my cousins are still there, offering a haven.

If this turns out to be a bust, I don't know what I'll do. I don't know what Ian will do. He's been running on the prospect of this place, even if he hasn't put that feeling into words. His quiet determination to keep going practically screams his expectations. But if there's no Greene farm, then all of this was for nothing, and he'll be crushed, and wonder what the point of continuing on is. _I'll_ wonder what the point is, much more than I ever have up until this moment.

The engine sputters again, the seventh time it's done so in the last ten minutes. My needling doubts are immediately swept away, replaced by a torrent of worry for our current situation. I bite the inside of my lip as our faithful ride for the last, long few days finally gives up the fight with a croak. We roll for a few feet before coming to a permanent stop. Nothing more rises from the depths of the Volkswagen Jetta.

"Well. Shit," I say blankly, sharing a brief, wide-eyed look with my brother. He sits rigid in the passenger seat, silently asking me what we'll do now. My hand falls limply to rest against the center console. I tap my fingers against the hand axe idly lying there, sharp blade facing the floor, hiding my frustration as best I can.

 _Will we ever get lucky and catch a break?_ We hadn't even made it to the highway. It had to be a little over two miles from this road, and from the highway to the Greene farm would be another four or so miles. A lot of walking in the Georgia heat.

We've gone further distances before, but that was when we'd had plenty (relatively) water and food. Now, our supplies are running dangerously low, and have been for quite a while. I've had no time to hunt - and let's be honest, I'm a shit hunter - and we've had next to no luck with scavenging, given our rush to move on. Most of the houses and stores around here were already picked dry by the time we passed through. The little we can scrounge, we're burning through, despite the strict rationing. A near empty box of protein meal bars, a handful of cans of ravioli, ten packets of salted peanuts, and one and a half bottles of water aren't going to hold us over for much longer.

I give Ian the bigger share whenever we eat. As much as I can without him noticing, but it doesn't make much of a difference when you're starving again mere minutes later. The gnawing hollowness weighing down my stomach must carve into his, too, sapping his energy. We're both beyond exhausted, although I hide mine better than him. I have to be the strong one, make sure the cracks of stress don't show. As long as I'm confident and unworried, Ian will be confident and unworried. He won't be any more uneasy than necessary.

"I can walk."

I stop in my unconscious surveyal of the road and woods for any nasty surprises and sharply turn my head in Ian's direction. "What?" I demand, but I heard him fine.

"I can walk," he repeats, leaning forward a bit as if to prove he's ready. "That's what we're going to have to do, right? It'll be no problem. Besides, we would've had to get out of the car when we hit the highway, what with all the abandoned cars and wrecks. How far away are we?"

I narrow my eyes for a nanosecond. Why is he being excessively enthusiastic? Ian fidgets, waiting for my answer. Eager. Why? _He's hiding something_ , some part of me that I wish didn't exist thinks. I toss the rogue theory out of my head the second it rises. If there's one thing I want more than ever in this new world, it's to never be suspicious of my own brother. I won't entertain my own paranoia if I can help it.

"From here to the highway? Two miles," I answer coolly, watching him closely. "From here to the farm? Six miles. You can handle that?"

Ian slouches, his facade crumbling. He looks worn down by the mere thought. "Oh." He raises his hand, wiping wearily at his forehead. After a moment, he nods firmly to himself and straightens up once more. "I can do it."

I scrutinize him. After all the months on the road fighting to survive, he's lost the baby fat that stuck with him and then some, and his young body has hardened into muscle. His face is thin- but not too gaunt- from malnourishment, but the spray of freckles is as prominent as ever. There are fading scratches covering his arms and legs, leftovers from when we ran through the forest one or two weeks ago to get away from that boneyard, all the dead and the living, leaving them behind to save our own skin.

My surroundings blur together, the colors mixing, becoming both lighter and darker as the details of that night trickle into my mind. For a moment, I'm forced back into the moonless night. I snap my head to the tree line, where I swear I can hear Lesley screaming for me, someone, anyone to help her, _help me_. I glance at Ian, but he acts as though nothing is amiss. Because nothing is. Nothing is out there, _nothing is out there_. But as quickly as I remember that, I see Trisha lying on the road in front of us. She belongs in the woods in the past, but here she is now, haunting me. Her legs are bent in the wrong directions, and I can hear the snapping noises they made when it happened, and I-

I suck in a deep breath of air- it does _not_ smell acrid, like sizzled meat, like death and decay, I'm only imagining it- and raise a hand to my cheek, tracing the puckered skin there. I whip around in my seat, busying myself with grabbing our things. We're down to a duffel and Ian's empty backpack stuffed inside, too light and too easy to carry. A few spare changes of clothes (all washed by river water but still filthy), four handguns with no ammo, a rifle with a box of rounds only to be used when absolutely necessary, daggers and some knives, six empty bottles, and the food and water. I press my palm against the boxes. We've managed so far, but I don't like teetering on the edge of losing control.

The car door opens, and I jolt, arm drawing back and fingers curling around the hatchet, ready to swing. But it was only Ian, hopping out of the Volkswagen. Some of the tension leaves my body, but my shoulders continue to ache from strain and my knuckles are white from their hold on the axe handle. "Come on," Ian prompts. "The daylight's wasting."

I nod, not bothering to attempt a smile. It'll come out wrong, thin and hollowed out. Best not to try. I grab hold of the duffel again with my other hand and pull it out of the car with me. "I suppose," I mumble, slamming the door shut. The Volkswagen jostles.

I force my gaze to leave my feet, to look at the road ahead. No one's there. Trisha was never there. I swallow. _Never there._ And that means Lesley isn't waiting in the forest for someone to put her out of her misery.

"Harper? What are you looking at?" Ian asks nervously.

I shake my head, hike the duffel up my shoulder. "Come on. Like you said, we're burning daylight."

He throws his hands up, lips twisting with the muted annoyance only a sibling is familiar with. "Oh, now you listen to me. You've been standing there like a statue for ages."

I bristle. Ages? "I'm enjoying the scenery," I remark dryly. "I was, that is, until you so rudely interrupted."

Ian snorts, and my lips twitch, like maybe I'll do the same, or smile. But it falls flat. Something in me has decided that it's not worth it. I can't bring myself to care.

 _Move. One step at a time. One foot in front of the other. That's how you keep going. That's how you survive. Move._ I stare at the yawning road ahead of us. Such a distance to cover. To keep on running through. _I can walk._ Ian only told me what I needed to hear. That's why he was so eager. But willing to try. That is the important part. Willing to try. _One foot in front of the other, Harper._

So I march, one foot in front of the other, and Ian falls into line beside me. Our steps are discordant, my right leg moving forward when his left leg is. I watch his feet, but no matter what I do, I'm a beat behind or a beat ahead. I can't manage to stay in sync with him. My steps are light and verging on a running pace. His are clunky and near to tripping over himself. There's a confidence in him, though. A sureness that keeps him from falling and not getting back up. I doubt that I carry myself the same way.

After our car has been gobbled up by the horizon and a winding, cracked cement path, I give up on my temporary obsession because of the long, low gurgle that comes from Ian. He claps his hands over his stomach, like that will stop his hunger from announcing itself. I shift the duffel down my shoulder, unzipping the bag enough to blindly stick my hand inside and find a protein bar. I hold the last strawberry-flavored bar out to him, a demand disguised as an offer.

"Today's your lucky day," I declare. "The whole thing's yours to eat."

"I'm alright," he denies, but his starved glances tell the true story.

"Take it, Ian. We're gonna be at the massive traffic graveyard in no time. Lots of cars left behind. That means we're bound to find at least some food."

He remains doubtful. "What about you?"

I pat the duffel. "There are still a couple leftover. I'll grab one when I want to eat."

"Why not now?" he prods. "You haven't had anything since last night - no, since yesterday afternoon. You must be hungry."

"Nah," I reply softly, thinking about the biters, the dead, the blood, the massacre. A faint wave of nausea racks me. At least I know I won't be wasting any food if I throw up. "I'm good. When I want something, I'll be eating like a champion." I nod at him.

He makes a noncommittal noise and snatches the food from my patient hand. He rips the plastic off, indifferently tossing the wrapper behind him. The environmentalists would throw a fit if they could see the state of the world now. It didn't take long for litter to accumulate when there wasn't any disposal service.

A glimmer of amusement shoots through me. "Hey," I nudge Ian with my elbow. "You remember that house we holed up in? In Indiana? All of us going to the bathroom and not being able to flush the fu- I mean the toilet?"

Ian guffaws, short and loud. My gaze darts around impulsively, but I don't tell him to quiet down like my instincts are screaming at me to. There's no reason to put a damper on his good mood. No reason to ruin his, too.

"God," he groans, waving his hand in front of his face as though he could still smell the stench. "That was the worst. Remember how we tried to air it out after Annie-" Ian stops himself, hastily tearing off another piece of his bar.

I curl my fingers into my palm, to make the pain something physical. Something manageable. I force a laugh out, then wish I hadn't. My silence would've been better than the phony noise. "After A- _Annie_ got sick."

Ian finds me with a sharp turn of his head. I nod, finding it hard to meet his unreadable expression. Annie Miller. It's the first time I've talked about her. Talking is supposed to help. That's what people have always said. But it's only made the knot in my chest tighten, not relieve it. _Breathe._

"It's _your_ fault, you know."

Ian's judgement bears down on me, and I can't breathe, _I can't breathe._ His eyes blaze with accusation and sadness. I shrink back. I've never seen him look at me like that. The others, yes, with the look of me being responsible for everything that went wrong. Never my brother. I should've known it was coming. I deserve it.

"If you had watched her more closely, she'd still be here. If _you_ had better protected both of our groups, they'd all still be alive." He balls his hands into fists. "It's _you_ who should be dead."

"Wh- What?" I choke out. But then the clarity sinks in. Yes. _Yes._ That's the way things should be. _If I die, will it make things right? Will it balance things out? Will they all forgive me? Will things be okay?_

Ian ripples out of focus. I almost do a double-take. Gone is the anger-hardened little brother. Gone is the accusation, like it was never there. Now he is guarded but trusting, trusting of me when he shouldn't be. "I said," he begins carefully, "it's not your fault."

"Oh." Sweat trickles down my forehead. I chase the cool bead with my finger. _Not your fault._ He said _not your fault._ How can he not blame me? He must be lying. How can it not be my fault, when I was responsible?

"You did the best you could," Ian continues. "Annie, Jennifer, Gray, Steve, L- Everyone… Everyone else. Their deaths happened, but they're not on you. You know?"

I appraise my little brother, finding it difficult to believe that he's only twelve. I frown a little. Maybe he's thirteen by now. I rack my brain, wondering how long it'd been since the world went to hell. When everything fell apart, it was the end of May. Ian's birthday is September 24. If it hasn't passed already, it must be getting closer to it. I feel a wave of guilt for not keeping track of the days, not even making an effort to.

I guess it doesn't matter now, though. There isn't a point to counting your years when age doesn't get you anywhere or keep you waiting. No starting school, no jumping to drive, no waiting to drink. None of the traditional milestones. We'd have to make new ones, then, and celebrate another way.

"Harper, are you even listening to me?" Ian asks, voice jarring me.

"Mmm?" I hadn't realized he was talking. Or that a steady trickle of abandoned cars or stalled cars with decayed corpses were popping up with more and more frequency. I flex my arm, twirling the axe. No more losing focus and leaving Ian and myself vulnerable.

"Harper."

The shame of a kid who's been caught with her hand in the cookie jar immediately after being told 'no' creeps up on me. "It got me thinking about your birthday, alright?" I deflect, and a phrase clogs my throat until I force it from my mouth. "It's easier to think about- anything else is easier to think about than _them._ "

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ian's steely nod, accepting, unrelenting. "You need to. Eventually, you need to. You can't keep going like this. You can't live like this."

 _Living_. I mull over the word. Where did _living_ fall into outlasting others? "I know," I reply firmly, making an effort. "But I don't need you looking after me."

"Someone's got to," he retorts with a flicker of a morose smirk. "Besides, you're my sister. It's practically an obligation."

I reach out and swat his shoulder. The light action is mechanical at best, but there is warmth in my monotone voice when I say, "Love you, too." He gives me a quick, earnest smile that I desperately devour, committing everything from the crinkles of the corners of his eyes to the way his mouth crookedly quirks further up on one side than the other. "Say, when did you get so old?"

His expression shutters, and I wonder if that's something he picked up from Darien or from me. My imaginary money is, unfortunately, on myself. His dad wasn't around enough.

Ian shrugs. "Old, young- it doesn't matter now, does it?"

He's an old soul, my brother. Trapped in a gangly boy's body.

We lapse into a silence heavy and sober.

I wonder how he would've grown up, had the biters never come along, and we'd gotten to stay in Illinois. Would Mom have suffered the same breakdown because of something else, and do what she did? Would Darien still have vanished from Ian's life at the worst time imaginable? Would I have been there, to find out before he had the chance to? Or would I have been stuck in another emergency shift, unable to shield him from the truth?

A four-car pile up of twisted metal and crushed doors and shattered glass signals the beginning of the worst of the car graveyard. A mini-van lays despondently on its side just off the highway, as though the driver had swerved to avoid the wreck. I duck my head, to see if a body or two are mangled within. The front seats are empty.

They could've gotten away, wriggled through the gaping hole in the windshield. I imagine that the blood spattering the jagged shards of the windows came from them forcing their way through. That despite the pain of the edges digging into their palms and slicing their wrists, they managed to get out thanks to sheer willforce and determination.

A few feet away from the van, I see a thick, dark-colored mass snuggled amongst the blades of overgrown grass. I grimace at the wad. It almost looks like a tangled-up bundle of rope. I squint. No. Not rope, I discern, passing a hand over my clammy forehead. It's a thick hank of black hair, torn and tossed away. And a couple inches from that, the dark body that the hair was once attached to.

I jerk my head to the side, forcing my attention to the opposite side of the highway. A truck and other four by four vehicles stall on the other edge of the road, waiting patiently in a line as if any second now they'd be used once more and taking someone somewhere. My lips curl back. A whole lot of use they did any of these people.

I clear my throat, glad Ian doesn't seem to have noticed the wreck. "We should check the cars for supplies. Water, food, weapons. Anything remotely useful, okay?"

"I'll take the left side and you take the right?" he suggests, flexing his shoulders.

I nod. "You have your knife, right? Just don't stray too far. If I can't see you and you can't see me, then loop back. Got it?"

Ian rolls his eyes. "We've only been over this a thousand times," he snarks.

"Mmm. And one day I might not say it and something bad will happen," I bit back a little too sharply.

Whatever retort he had ready dies on his lips at my tone. I dig my nails into my palm, cursing myself for the shadow that eclipses his face. "I'm sorry."

But the damage is done, and here we are. On opposite sides of the world despite standing side by side.

Clearing my throat, we begin our slow shuffle through the graveyard, opening and shutting doors with as little noise as possible. At a precursory glance, plenty of the cars are mercifully void of anything remotely human. The drawback is that that means most of what's left behind are clothes or children's toys. Everyone who vacated before dying took the food and weapons and tents, if they were smart enough to grab one.

Eyes flitter to front, Ian, back, right, the whispering trees, left, Ian, the dark woods.

I pry on the passenger side door of a minivan, leaping away in an instant. A swarm of flies bursts free from the musty, humid interior. I swat in front of me, haphazardly swiping the air with my hatchet. Frowning, I rest the weapon in one of my belt loops and gulp air through my mouth. While I've gotten used to the smell of decay plaguing this wasteland, whatever's inside is strong enough to be noticeable. It has festered, egged on by the intense heat.

 _Walk away. Walk away._ But I can't, or I won't, and what difference does it make anyway, because I'm taking a step, and then another one, until I'm casting a shadow over the inside of the car. A lone baby seat sits in the back. Blood coats the chair. The baby's seat belt remains buckled tight. The body in the driver's seat is twisted back, an arm outstretched as though reaching. Chunks of putrid meat hang from old, deep wounds on the corpse, made from the claws and teeth of biters.

My eyes snap shut. I squeeze and squeeze and squeeze until there are stars exploding in my gaze and I can't see beyond it. None of this is real. This is all a long, drawn-out nightmare. I'm on a twisted drug trip. I'm in a coma. I've been cursed. I'm in hell. I'm a ghost in a post-apocalyptic world of my own creation because I can't accept my death.

But if this is a dream, I can wake up. I can wake up, I can wake up, I can wake-

"Won't that be something? If it turned out you've been in a coma and dreamed up an entire life for yourself?"

My heart stops. I whirl around, expecting to see a phantom, my visit from beyond the grave. Of course no one is here. Of course not. But for a moment, maybe. Asher Molloy was here, haunting me. Just like the others. Always.

"The dead linger. Didn't you know?" Hidden behind me again.

No. I shake my head, dismissing his voice. Forcing his intrusion away, just like I do the others. Blocking him out.

I slam the door shut, and the wisp of a baby's sob escapes, clinging to me. I shudder, roll my neck. Onto the next car. Snag half-filled over-the-counter medications. A hammer. A precious box of nine mm rounds. The body of a little girl tied up in the trunk. A dog of matted fur missing its insides. Fresh baby wipes- that'll help us clean up some of the grime.

The dried blood trail leading into the trees.

"HELP US!"

The bloodcurdling scream comes from nowhere, flies out in all directions. It's a ringing in my ears, a pressure in my chest. Blind panic courses through my veins. I can't catch my breath. But when I gulp in the air, I spit it out again. It tastes like ash. Firewood and ash. The clang of a gunshot ricochets against the cars, the ground, a bullet heading straight for my lungs. I duck, take cover behind a rusted Honda. I can see my assailant, his inky black hair clotted with gore. I hear his muttered curses, delivered in sharp Japanese.

I moan, low and long, clawing at my skin. "Nononono…" Gray. He can't be here. He can't. A steady stream of horror encases me, entangling me like vines. Squeezing the life out of me. Somehow he survived, and now he's taking care of a personal vendetta. Our eyes lock, his murky brown against my speckled green. His eyes glint triumphantly. He thinks this victory is in the bag, that I'll let him take me out and leave Ian to the wolves.

I force my jelly legs to rise, my leaden arm to raise my axe. I'll make sure this time. I'll make sure he's gone, that there's no walking away. He limps toward me, injured leg dragging. The hole in his jeans reveals a jagged wound, a raw and ruined thigh.

Gray doesn't speak (he never was one for long talks and walks on the beach), just stalks forward with a sick smirk. I don't run to meet him in battle, don't wonder why he's choosing to wait to shoot. Maybe he wants to draw out my death, steal my life away with his bare hands.

He doesn't get the chance. Once he's within range, I swing my blade. It slices through his jaw, crunches against bone. I jerk the axe out of his face and he stumbles back. I swing a second time, into the side of his skull. A third time, right through his forehead. No matter how many times I hit him, long after he's reduced to a body twitching on the side of the road, his satisfied leer never fades. He's so sure he's won.

I turn away and dry heave.

When I turn back to deal with his body (I can't let Ian stumble onto him, he can never know), the corpse lying there isn't Gray. It's morphed into some nameless biter. Once blond hair now tainted by dirt and blood, a stocky build. A polar opposite of Gray.

I run my fingers over my scarred cheek, feel the faintest of throbs. My imagination, that was all. My gut clenches.

"Harper!" Ian this time.

Real.

Right?

"Yep?" I ask, cradling my stomach. _How can he be grinning?_

He skids to a stop a few feet away. "You'll never guess what I found."

"Food?"

"I can do you one better."

I gap. "Water?"

He nods. "And a shit ton of it."

I fidget, moving every way and no way at once. "Oh my God. Oh my God!" I bound over to him, grabbing him by the shoulders and squeezing. He doesn't notice the tremors tormenting my hands. "Where?"

He's practically vibrating as he flashes to the other side of the highway, at a service truck heading out but foolishly abandoned. LIPSEY FRESH WATER is splayed in faded blue and orange on the side. He disappears around the side and I tag him, giddy at the prospect of all that water. He's pulled the side door up, revealing rows of five-gallon water cases. All full, the clean water twinkling in the sun, radiating hope.

"Damn," I breathe, starstruck. I run my fingers over the lukewarm containers, grabbing one at random to take and put onto the cracked concrete. I drop our duffel beside it, and Ian pounces on it, unzipping and withdrawing the empty one-liter water bottles from its anorexic depths, placing them in a line with their caps off.

Bracing myself, I carefully pour the water into each bottle. Shots of irritation fly through me whenever the water sloshes onto the concrete, instantly gobbled up by the humid warmth, wasted. After topping off the last bottle, I sit back, wiping the sweat and stray hair from my face. I snatch a blissfully heavy bottle from the ground and hold it toward Ian. He grins, following my cue, and we toast before chugging down the water. It doesn't matter how far from cold it is. We haven't had this much liquid since before the outbreak.

Bottles drained in a matter of seconds, I refill them, content to remain a sitting duck for a few minutes, savor this precious moment. I can almost forget about Gray.

"This is amazing, Ian," I sigh after a while. "Did you look around for a key? Maybe we can drive this thing out of here, find some place to hole out for a while."

Ian wipes his chapped lips. "The keys are still in the ignition."

I'm thinking that the odds are in our favor after all, that it's some kind of cosmic law that there has to be a proportion of bad to good and this is the changing tide, finally, but when I hop into the driver's seat and turn the key, the engine doesn't so much as spark. Dead, like everything else around here. _Naturally._

"The engine's shot," I announce with disappointment, but undeterred. Ian finding this is a win, and I won't take it for granted. I squint. If we could get a pickup truck, we'd be able to haul cases of that water out of here, bring it to the Greene farm. We'd be providing them with a good vehicle for supplies and a reserve of liquid in case something happened with their wells. Or if we ever needed to run. It'd help our chances with Hershel letting us stay, if being family isn't enough.

"What's the plan now?" Ian wonders, but his focus is on our water bottles.

"Drink as much as you want. We can afford to splurge," I say absently. He falls upon it like a hungry wolf. "How about we keep gathering supplies, then circle back in a couple hours? We can load up one of these trucks and leave when we're ready. We'll be at the farm by nightfall."

Ian wipes his mouth on his filthy shirt sleeve. Sometimes, when the wind blows just right, I think I smell our stench, and an ache blossoms in the pit of my stomach. I miss laundry detergent. I miss being able to take care of my brother, give him - at the very least - clean clothes on his back.  
"You sure?" he asks, uncaring of the dirt left behind around his chapped mouth. "What if someone comes along and finds it before we can get back?"

"No… No, there won't be anyone. This place is a desert."

"Isn't everywhere?" He peels a strip of sunburned skin from his forehead, tossing it away with a grimace. We'd run out of sunscreen days ago, and it took all of an hour for his white, freckled skin to toast. I mentally add that to the list of things we need to find.

My smile is pinched. "Then there won't be any problems."

"Well," he sighs, "ready to go?"

I jump up with a nod, shake the dread settling in my bones, dismiss my paranoia. No one is after us. But there's Gray, a cruel and snide hissing whirl of wind in my ear. _Not someone, maybe, but something is after you. You won't ever escape._ And I believe him.

* * *

 _Gray and Steve insisted on going alone to check out the town square, leaving Roger and me to guard the rest of the group. They said it was to equally distribute the manpower - Jennifer corrected them with a mumbled "and womanpower" - but usually I went with Gray to scout a new area. We worked well together, in sync with our movements, and yet he'd practically jumped at the chance to go with a different partner, a light blow to my dignity, and Steve had scrambled for the opportunity. My theory was that they wanted some peace and quiet, away from Roger and me._

 _Our ongoing debate about what would've happened in season two of the Vampire Diaries if the dead hadn't risen had reached a breaking point. Roger was foolishly adamant that Elena would stay with Stefan, but it was obvious to everyone paying attention that the end game was Delena from the start. No teen drama (or guilty pleasure viewing, as Roger and Mary-Ann called it) introduced a character like Damon Salvatore to a love triangle only to have the main girl end up with the Stefan of the trio. There was no way._

" _Roger, it's a classic TV cliche! The girl chooses the bad boy in the end," I said. "He's the vampire brother with appeal, the heartthrob, the passion! And, of course, he was changing himself for her. It was a textbook case, open and shut."_

 _Roger folded his arms, a firm expression pressing his lips together and mischief lighting his crinkled brown eyes. "Say what you will, but Elena loves Stefan. He was always there for her and a stable fixture in her life."_

 _I flung my arms out. "That's the whole appeal, old man! Stefan is stable, normal, boring. Damon is fun and unpredictable and exciting. How could a seventeen year old fictional character like Elena resist?" I harrumphed. "Stays with Stefan my ass."_

 _Mary-Ann put a hand on her husband's shoulder, squeezing gently. "Sorry darling, but I'm afraid Harper has a point there. Bad boys are all the rage to a teenage girl."_

" _They weren't back in our day," he grumbled._

 _Jennifer, who'd been on the sidelines watching our volley of verbal sparring broke in with a sarcastic, "Oh, and you would know?"_

" _Well, I can't speak for everyone else, but my Mary-Ann didn't fall for that nonsense," Roger clarified, a touch of pride in his voice. From what they'd told us about how they fell in love, he'd been the typical lovable wallflower geek who could be spotted in his free time talking Star Trek. Mary-Ann met him in an art class their sophomore year. Their first conversation evolved into a fight about the show, and they started dating two weeks later._

 _From around Roger's shoulder, Mary-Ann shook her head and mouthed, "Delena forever." Jennifer and I stifled our giggles. She'd never admit to Roger that Damon had wooed her, too._

" _Sure, Roger," I agreed with a smirk, "but this isn't real life. We're talking over-the-top, mainstream TV. Elena would fall for Damon. It would've been inevitable."_

 _He clicked his tongue sourly. "You have your ending and I'll have mine, how's that? A gift and curse of the apocalypse is that we'll never know the true ending of The Vampire Diaries."_

" _I guess you're right." I uncrossed my arms, shifting my weight. "It's weird to imagine, isn't it? All those shows that we spent so much time watching amount to nothing. I didn't realize how much time I'd wasted until it wasn't around anymore."_

" _They made for good entertainment, at least," Jennifer said, frowning slightly as she twirled a strand of her dark hair. "I miss being able to complain about being bored."_

" _I miss Power Rangers," Ian piped from below. He sat near my feet, drawing stick figures on the pavement with Annie using the chalk we'd found. I watched her nod along with our conversation, the closest she'd come to participating with such a large crowd._

" _I don't," I fired back with an exaggerated groan, pleased to catch the quick smile on Annie's face. "I'm so glad I don't have to see that horrible acting anymore."_

 _The smattering of laughter slowly died out as Gray and Steve emerged from around one of the boarded up buildings. They didn't look troubled, but looks could be deceiving, and Gray was a master at keeping a deadpan expression. "Well?" Roger called to them, shouldering his rifle. "What's the verdict?"_

" _The place is clean," Steve announced as they neared. "Couple of biters in the square, but they weren't active. Gray gave them a good hit to the head to make sure they stayed that way."_

" _The only place not boarded up is the post office," Gray said, taking the lead. "I figure we'll be safe there for the night. We could try getting into the bakery and the other storefronts, but it's a coin toss on what could be inside."_

 _I twirled my baseball bat, looking over at Gray as he casually wiped the blood from his hammer on a spare hand rag. I glanced down at Annie, whose drawing had become more erratic and intense. She furiously colored in her yellow sun, the one that beat down on a grassy hill and a little girl with kinky red hair collecting flowers while two stick figures - a man and a woman - sat on a picnic blanket watching. She squinted her eyes, as though the hand drawn rays of grimey sunshine were blinding her._

 _I knelt down beside her, running a comforting hand through her hair. Maddy's hair, if she'd been given the chance to grow older. I flinched. If Annie felt my brief stiffness, she didn't let on._

" _I don't know. We're at the end of daylight, and that's on top of a day of nonstop traveling. Maybe we should wait it out. We can keep going in the morning."_

 _I didn't miss the way Gray narrowed his eyes, the flash of something that wasn't like the old Gray from when we first met. This was harder, sharper. I feared what he was becoming, this man with a shortening patience for the kids, the weak links._

 _I worried for me, too. What did it say when I understood the way he was thinking?_

 _But when Jennifer danced over and threw her arms around him in her usual bear-hug style, his edges melted. He kissed the top of her head, and he nodded his agreement at me. "We could do a cookout in the square," he suggested, the traces of malice gone._

" _We could rig up traps as an extra precaution," Steve said, glancing around. His composure rarely cracked, a perk of serving in the army, I supposed, but some of the stress was leaking through. His face was made of stone, tense frown lines etched in. "We don't want any nasty surprises."_

 _He didn't have to say what had already become apparent. We'd been running into more biters lately. Not enough to be overwhelming, but an uncomfortable amount to be nerve wrecking. Roger had voiced his concern days ago under the cover of night, when the kids were asleep, putting to words what the rest of us had picked up on and didn't want to admit. Just when we thought the world couldn't get any more dangerous, a new problem cropped up._

 _We moved our things into the post office, among a bed of discarded letters and packages. After ransacking the vending machines with dust collecting and spiders crawling on them, we had a nice assortment of goldfish, pretzels, cheese crackers, chips, gum, pop, and water. It was a good stock, all things considered._

 _With a bit of encouragement, Annie pilfered through the pile of pop, pulling out a Grape Fanta. Ian swooped in on the Sprite, opening it with uncharacteristic delicacy. Jennifer grabbed herself a water and clinked the plastic bottle against Annie's and Ian's. "Cheers! To our good health and fortune," she toasted with an exaggerated British accent._

 _Annie glanced at me, humor in her eyes._

" _To our bounty of nutritious meals," I added dryly, opening a bag of goldfish for myself. Annie periodically helped herself to some and refused to open her own bag._

 _Ian wandered around the post office, and my eyes trailed him. He disappeared behind the service desk. I knew there weren't any threats lurking behind the barrier, but I couldn't let go of my breath until Ian popped back out, holding an empty can of corn with a grin on his face. Annie blinked owlishly at him, probably wondering what he could possibly be smiling for like I was. An opened tin can with its glinting metal teeth flashing at them viciously was a loss in my book. Another stock of food gone._

" _We can play kick the can!" Ian said, lifting the ribbed can as if it were the holy grail. Without prompting, Ian tossed it onto the ground and gave it a good kick. It skidded along the tile, startling Mary-Ann and Roger. Gray shot Ian a venomous glance, and I moved closer to my brother, hand drifting to my side and the knife resting there for emergencies._

 _Ian smiled sheepishly, face reddening. "Sorry! I should've warned everyone first. Annie, you want to play with me?"_

 _A spark lit her eyes, and she glanced at me._

 _I raised my eyebrows. "Don't look at me, kid. Play if you want to."_

 _She reached out and tugged my hand, taking me with her as she rose._

" _Who said I wanted anything to do with it?" I asked incredulously._

" _Come on, Harp!" Ian insisted with a grin. "You know what having fun is, don't you?"_

 _I gasped in mock outrage, and a wonderful laugh bubbled out of Annie._

" _Oh, I'll show you fun," I promised, advancing on my brother. "Co'mere, you little twerp!"_

 _He shot away from me, cackling. I rounded on Annie, hoping I could get her instead, only to find her running toward Ian, quietly giggling. How could I ever pass up playing a game with them, when it made Ian and Annie act their age?_

 _We'd only just gotten into the real game with the can when a bang on the window brought everything crashing down. Ian faltered mid-kick, the can skittering off into a forgotten corner. Annie jumped a mile high and instantly scurried behind me, holding my pant leg like the world depended on it. I snatched up my baseball bat, but Steve was already on it._

 _The biter continued mindlessly rapping on the window, staring through us with those soulless, bloodshot eyes. Jaw clenched, Steve slipped out of the post office and sank his blade into the biter's brain in one fluid motion. With a perturbed grunt, the biter collapsed, and Steve scraped the blood off his knife against the side of the building._

" _I'll take first watch," I muttered._

 _So much for a quiet night and a barbecue._


End file.
